Isternes' Shore
by lastpaperbender
Summary: A Darkangel Trilogy fanfic. Eleven years after their parting, Aeriel and Irrylath again find themselves in Isternes, struggling with bitter memories, new responsibilites and a fateful contest for control of the world. Please R&R.
1. Prologue

Sabr bared her teeth in a noiseless snarl as her belly tightened once again, labor pains rippling up and down the swollen bulk. _So_, she thought, _this is what it means to suffer in silence_. She bit her lip until it bled, to keep from crying out. The midwife, Alenka, mistook her expression for one of distress, and grasped her hand to reassure her.

"How brave you are, lady!" she murmured. "Not even a harsh word from you—just keep your courage up, and we'll have the child out in no time."

The queen of Avaric turned her head away, cursing the foolish woman in her mind. Her silence was not one of pride, as Alenka thought, but of penitence. How cleverly she had contrived her own undoing four years past! How eagerly she had sought this misery, mistaking it for something fair and pleasing! So it had come to pass that she, who had once been the Bandit Queen, the chieftess of Avaric-in-Exile, was shut up in a corner of Irrylath's tour, sprawled gracelessly on a pallet of straw. At first, she had blamed the green-eyed sorceress for her unhappiness, thinking that Aeriel was still bent on claiming Irrylath as her own, cursing her rival from afar. Now she regretted that uncharitable thought.

_Just let me live through this_, she prayed, _and I will atone for the wrongs I did. Please, just let me live. Let me live that I may walk away from this place._ She did not even know to whom she prayed; the last of the Unknown-Nameless ones had passed away at the start of the war. She clutched a handful of stiff straw, trying to remember that time before she had given up her freedom for Irrylath's dubious love. She'd been proud and haughty then, ruling her band of thieves and exiled plainsdwellers as a man would—what had ever tempted her to give up her that existence for the prison of Tour-of-the-Kings? How had her tenderness for the shipwrecked Irrylath grown into an intense jealously and hatred for Aeriel, his unlovely and unloved wife? She had once railed against the green-eyed girl for wanting to possess the prince—ironic words from one had since become a possession herself. _I wonder if Aeriel realizes what a favor she did herself_, she thought with a snort. _I wonder if she knows what she escaped_. Sabr had always thought herself a shrewd businesswoman—it was only now that she could see how sorely she'd cheated herself.

It wasn't that Irrylath was abusive or violent—it would have been easier if he was, for then Sabr would have grounds for leaving him. The trouble between them was far subtler than that. She knew that when they lay together, it was not her face he gazed upon. Sometimes he saw his own face, without five long scars on the cheek, without the terror and despair lurking in the blue eyes; sometimes he saw the lorelei again, white as salt and smiling with malice; sometimes he saw a fair-skinned girl with hair the color of pale electrum and eyes like beryl stones. He didn't speak of these things, but Sabr knew—it was never her own true face he saw, or wished to see. She'd promised once to love him as mortal woman would, without conditions, without reservation—sugared words, uttered in ignorance and intended to win his vulnerable heart. In four years, he had not come to terms with his parting with Aeriel, but brooded upon it still. He did not share his thoughts with Sabr, for he remembered her covetous rivalry with his one-time wife. In the end, it came down to one thing: Sabr had wanted Irrylath, not the responsibilities and sorrows that came with him. Now that he no longer held any attraction for her, life in his home was all but unbearable. She must escape from him if she wanted any semblance of the life she had once had—he was beyond her power to help.

Another pang made her gasp and clutch Alenka's hand. That was what she had thought before her birth pangs began, anyway. It only now occurred to her that a child changed everything. If she wanted to be free from Irrylath forever, she would have to leave the child behind—he would hunt her down, otherwise. She felt a sob rising in her throat, and ran a tight hand over her belly. _Get out!_ she fumed at it. _Get out of me, let me be clean and empty again! Get out of me, so I can go!_ She felt something warm and damp running down her face. She would leave the child behind, go and start a new life and bring nothing with her. She didn't care what they might call her—a betrayer, a bad wife, a bad mother—for she would be far away from Avaric.

Sabr twisted around suddenly, painfully, as the pain across her abdomen and down her legs became unbearable. Almost as if her thoughts had been overheard, she felt the volume within her decrease as something slid out into Alenka's waiting hands. Showing a quickness and skill Sabr had not guessed of her, the midwife snipped the cord, used a hollow reed to clean the newborn's nostrils, then brought her hand down sharply on its—his, Sabr amended with a short glance—backside. The infant let out roar and took in breath. Satisfied, Alenka handed the boy over to one of the serving-women to wash and swaddle, while she crouched once more between Sabr's legs.

"Isn't that it?" the queen of Avaric growled, wiping away a trickle of sweat.

"Mercy, no!" the midwife answered kindly. "There's one more still in there that we've got to get free, then the afterbirth."

"One more," Sabr whispered, turning her head to one side. She would not be abandoning one child, but two. _So be it_, she thought. She pulled herself up a little, and pushed with all the strength she had. Her chest tightened as she held her breath and strained. Then, with a great heave, she expelled the second infant. Alenka snatched the baby—a girl, this time—up out of the straw, and attended to her as she had the first child. Sabr lay numbed on the pallet, looking over at the creatures that had come out of her—little pieces of Irrylath that had taken root, growing at her expense. She was free of them now, and soon she would be free of her husband as well.

A few days later, Sabr was waiting on the highest tower of Tour-of-the-Kings, waiting as she watched the Solstarset. She had managed to escape the anxious and attentive serving-women with the excuse that she needed to rest. Irrylath was away in Terrain, consulting with his brother Lern on some occult matter—there was no better time to make her escape. Assuming, of course, that the great Starhorse had even heard her prayer. Confined in the Tour, she'd had no sure way of conveying her message to him—only the faint hope that the silver lon would answer the prayer of the least of his citizens.

As the last ruby-colored rays of Solstar winked on the far horizon, a faint shadow caught her eye in the distance—something flying high and fast. Her breath caught in her throat. _He has heard_, she thought,_ he has heard me!_

The winged shape drew closer and closer, and soon she could feel his great wing-strokes buffeting the air about her head. He folded his wings, and set down on the tower with the metallic chime of his hooves striking stone.

"Daughter," he said, arching his neck, "I have heard you—I am here."

"I did not think you were built to feel mercy," Sabr said with a bitter laugh.

"Ravenna put justice in our hearts, not compassion," the Starhorse said, stamping his hoof. "But Aeriel gave us new hearts to replace the ones the Witch ate up. She fed my brother and sister lons the seeds of the apricok tree, and restored their shapes; later she fed one to me as well. Peace, daughter—I am not here to judge you, but to bear you away from your unhappiness. You understand the full import of what you are about to do?"

"Yes," she said.

"And this is truly what you wish?"

"Yes."

The Equustel turned one great eye upon her, contemplating.

"Then I shall ask no further, he said. "Climb up." She sprang up onto his bare back, mindful of the great silver wings on each shoulder. The great lon cantered a short distance over the rough stones, then flung himself aloft, bearing her up toward the fiery swirl of starry heaven. Sabr felt her heart pounding in her chest as she looked down at the plain of Avaric passing beneath her; she felt a sensation returning to her body that she had not felt in many daymonths—the feeling of life. _This must have been how Irrylath felt, riding the Starhorse into battle_, she thought, _alive—clean and new_.

She did not know how long they flew thus—eventually she stopped watching the land below and turned her gaze heavenward. A faintly luminescent haze seemed to cloud the sky before them—the Avarclon was flying straight toward it.

"What is that, ahead?" she asked.

"A wisp of Ravenna's lost magic," the Starhorse replied, canting his wings slightly as he dropped down. "It was all scattered to the winds when Oriencor crushed the pearl, and must be regathered. I look for it and bring it back to Aeriel, when and if I am able."

"Oh..." Sabr breathed. As they flew into the mist full of sparks, a faint inkling came to her of the sheer enormity of Aeriel's task. Regret filled her heart for the many times she had belittled and despised the green-eyed maiden. She remembered that Aeriel had been filled with a quiet strength, but always looked uncomfortable when people showered grand titles and honors upon her—she must have qualities Sabr had never imagined, if Ravenna had appointed this last task to her. Few people had heard any news of Aeriel over the last four years, except Lady Syllva and her sons who were rebuilding Westernesse, and they were always very tight-lipped around Irrylath.

All of a sudden, a faint red spark caught her attention. The Avarclon seemed to be diving towards it, chasing it as it rolled on the wind. As they pulled near it, Sabr leaned forward to see what it was; it looked almost like an ember caught up in the cloud, impossibly small and yet radiating with heat and power.

"That is a firebead," the Equustel said, as though sensing the direction of his rider's thoughts, "one of the seeds of the magic of the ancients." Suddenly he snapped at it with his teeth; the spark disappeared from Sabr's view, and the felt the Starhorse's powerful throat swallowing it down.

"There," he said, "that will keep it safe for Aeriel while I bear you to Orm."

The silvery lon stopped in his flight as the Terrain border came within sight, the lights of the city of the Sfinx gleaming with a brightness to rival that of the stars. Sabr buried her face in the Equustel's streaming mane—what kind of life was waiting for her down there? True to her word, she had brought nothing of her past with her, nothing to even begin a new life. _I've already built myself up from nothing once_, she thought, remembering her early years in Talis. _I'll do it again if I must_.

The ground was growing nearer and nearer; the Avarclon furled his wings, and dropped neatly down to the earth without a hitch or stumble. Sabr slid off his broad back awkwardly—the pains in her legs were returning—and stood before him. He put his face close to hers, and she felt his warm breath, smelling of sweet grass and starlight.

"You'll be alright on your own daughter?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, I'll be fine. Don't tell Irrylath where I've gone."

"That is not his affair," the Starhorse rumbled, shaking his mane. "Good luck, warrior-daughter. I wish you more happiness than you've had."

Sabr cupped her hands about his face in gratitude. "Thank you, Avarclon," she said. "And please thank Aeriel for the loan of her lon—I am surely the last person who deserves her kindness."

The Starhorse blew a last breath against her palm, then turned and plunged upward again. She watched his dark form dwindle until she could no longer see him. _Free_ she thought. _I am free under the stars_.

Lady Syllva watched in perfect silence as the stars wheeled and gyred in the heavens above her. It seemed like an entire lifetime had passed since she had last walked the halls of Tour-of-the-Kings. She was not sure that she liked returning to her old home, knowing what all had passed in the Tour since she had lived there: her husband had brought home a new wife to replace her; then both had died, made childless by the Witch's evil; then Irrylath had returned in his twisted _icarus_-form, remembering the way home despite his lead-gilded heart, his mutilated body, his polluted memories. He had done the Lorelei's evil within the Tour's walls, murdering thirteen wives, all unwitting. Then he'd snatched up Aeriel—his bane, and his salvation.

The Lady of Isternes drummed her fingers on the stone parapet—her son had whispered the whole story of his rescue to his mother more than four years ago, at the start of he war. While she wept for Irrylath's suffering, she wept more for Aeriel's. For Syllva too had once been an unloved and unthanked wife. After Irrylath had been drowned in the Witch's Mere, and Syllva had returned to Westernesse without her fertility restored, Imrahil had been forced to put her aside for the good of all Avaric.

"My only son lies dead in the desert because of you!" she remembered him yelling, a few rooms away from where she now stood. Hot tears ran from his fierce blue eyes, and his beautiful face was twisted with grief. Syllva remembered the touch of his rough and angry hands cupping her face. _He will surely kill me_, she had thought.

"Husband, take your hands away from my face," she'd said in a low voice. "Let me go."

The blue fire of his eyes blazed for a moment, then dimmed.

"Forgive me," he wept. "He was your son, too." His slender, graceful hands ran down her neck to embrace her around the shoulders, this time with love and not anger. She clung tightly to him.

"Syllva," he whispered into hair. "The chieftains of Avaric came to me today; they say that if I do not put you aside and take another wife, they will rescind their oaths of allegiance."

She felt her heart cry out, and pushed her husband roughly away. Imrahil caught her hand and held it tight.

"Can't you see?" he begged. "I need an heir! My brother I cannot trust, for he consorts with thieves and bandits—and they say that winged monsters are abroad in the world, darkangels! They say that Bernalon has disappeared, that she has forsaken her land and an _icarus_ rules in her place." He breathed deeply. "Syllva, I _must_ have a son. I cannot forsake my country, even for love of you."

Shoving the memories away, the Lady of Isternes turned her gaze again to the stars. That had been a lifetime ago—Aeriel and Irrylath had stepped into those role in their turn, and had parted as bitterly. Syllva had forgiven her husband long ago, and moved on—she knew that Aeriel too find forgiveness in her heart. But Imrahil had died a wretched and unhappy death—Syllva was here now to try and save her son from that fate. A daymonth ago, she had received a message from her second-born son Lern, who ruled in neighboring Terrain, that all was not well in Avaric. Sabr had disappeared without a trace; Irrylath shut himself up in his quarters, brooding; only the serving-women of the Tour remained to do what was needed for the twin children the Bandit Queen had left behind, nameless and motherless.

Steeling herself, Syllva turned away from the window, and went down the silent hallway to the rooms where the king of Avaric had locked himself away. As she approached the heavy, dark door, a shock went through her body—she recognized it as the apartment Irrylath had lived in as a child. Surely he did not live there still?

"Irrylath!" she cried, trying the handle of the door. It was locked, barred against her. "Irrylath!" she called again. "Open the door!"

"I left orders that no one should disturb me!" came an hard voice from within. "Who are you, that you call me by my name?"

"Your mother."

Silence answered her. After what seemed like a small eternity, she heard the bolt sliding back and the creak of the hinges. Her son, pale beneath his golden complexion and worn with weeping, appeared before her.

"Oh, my son," she whispered, and folded him in her arms. "What is wrong with you? What are you doing in this room?"

He looked over his shoulder and sighed.

"This is the room where Aeriel and I drank our wedding toast, where she killed me—and saved me. I came back to think upon whether she did me a great good or a great evil."

Syllva ran a hand over his haggard face.

"Good," she answered, "and you know it."

He dropped his gaze. "Yes," he whispered. "I know. But she left me." He pulled away from her. "And now Sabr has left me as well. I have nothing left."

She took his hand. "Don't say that you have nothing left," she reproached him. "You have two children left who need their names and their father."

Irrylath looked up sharply, as though he had been roused suddenly out of a dream.

"Take them back to Isternes with you," he said sadly. "I am not fit to raise them."

"Irrylath," she warned, "don't throw this chance away. No, they can't replace what you've lost—I did not bear your six brothers that they might replace you. But my children sweetened my life after I was put aside and turned out of Avaric. You can be a good father to your children, and they will bless and enrich your life. You don't believe me, I know, but it is true." Pulling his hand gently, she led him out of the room. Irrylath walked like a dazed man, unsure of every step, but went of his own accord.

Syllva led her eldest son through the halls, away from the room where he'd slept as a child, silently praying that his torment would never take him back there again. They went down to the humble kitchen that the serving-women had put to use. The women looked up anxiously as they came in, fearful that Irrylath was still in a state and would do some harm to the infants. The women who had taken charge of the twins after Sabr's disappearance, a servant named Avda who had come with Syllva from Isternes a generation earlier, rose solemnly to her feet to greet them. She nodded toward a pair of rough-hewn cradles that sat near the fireplace. The Lady of Isternes released her son's hand. With tentative steps, Irrylath went toward the hearth, knelt down, and pulled back one of the children's blankets.

An expression Syllva had never seen before crossed the king's face, but she knew instantly what it was. It was the look she knew he must have worn every time he thought of Aeriel—regret tempered with a deep and abiding love.


	2. Return to Isternes

Aeriel gazed up at Isternes' eastern wall, trembling with relief and homesickness. It had been many long daymonths since she had set out from NuRavenna, seeking all of the lost magic that had drifted to the far east of the world, and the sight of Syllva's citadel was like balm to her wearied heart. She felt Erin's arm around her waist, supporting her as she climbed the hill to the Istern Gate, and smiled as she gazed into her friend's dark, beloved face. The girl from the Sea-of-Dust returned her smile whole-heartedly.

"So that is Isternes," she said softly. "It is very beautiful."

Aeriel nodded. She was not here to marvel at the white city, though, or even to sit at ease with Lady Syllva and her youngest son, Hadin. Rather, she had come to ask the help of the priestesses of the great kirk at Lonwury, if they could give it to her. After eleven years of near-seclusion in Crystalglass, pouring over the scripts of the ancients, learning their language, the designs and plans they had laid for the world when they sparked life upon it, Aeriel had realized that she could never restore the world alone. Even with the magic she'd managed to recover in that time—both through her own efforts and those of the lons—she could not do it all herself.

_You could, in time_, a quiet voice in her blood whispered.

_No_, Aeriel answered sharply. _I don't want to become what you were, shut up in a cold, empty city of my own making. How am I supposed to heal this world if I am not a part of it, if I am shut up in Crystalglass watching from afar?_

The pearlstuff in her blood was silent. In eleven years, the spirit of Ravenna had formulated no answer to that. It was a battle they fought sporadically: during long, silent treks across the face of the world; in the night, when Aeriel stopped so that Erin could sleep; and, like now, at completely unexpected times.

_Your kind shut themselves up in their domes when the world began to fail around them, allowing their children, their creations, to die while they sat secure in their cities. I pray that all of the heavens should fall upon me and crush me if I ever do that._

The Ancient did not answer. Aeriel heard a faint sound like a sigh, very tired and unhappy.

As she and Erin continued up the hill toward the city gate, Aeriel felt something light and cold slapping at the heel of her hand. It was the fine chain of ancient silver, she knew, on which Ravenna's pearl had once been strung—although she did not look down at it, she knew it had left a thin, red welt all the way around her wrist, where the tiny links grated and chafed even her impervious skin. She wore the same stainless, austere white robe she had worn upon awaking in NuRavenna years ago, woven from the heavy, stiff thread of sacrifice. Still, she was not as unhappy as she'd expected to be. The only time her heart ached was when her thoughts strayed to her husband, far away in Avaric, and to what might have been; then she would again taste the bitter grains of Oriencor's withered heart on her tongue, feel a sting along her breastbone where she and Irrylath had exchanged hearts twice over.

But now, as she gazed on the tall, white wall of Isternes, her thoughts were light and her heart filled with joy. The watchman at the gate gazed at them in astonishment, then bowed low to them as they passed through into the city—even in the many years of Aeriel's retreat from the world, the tales of the "Green-Eyed Sorceress" and her night-dark companion had not been forgotten. The bitter, spicy scent of myrrh came to her nose. _Ah, I remember that smell_, she thought. They burned it night and day in the great kirk of Lonwury, a sweet smoke offering to please the Unknown-Nameless ones who had built the world and taught the priestesses their arts. Aeriel felt her heart twist at the thought—all of the Ancients were gone now, and she, a naive and unlearned maiden, was their only heir. She hoped that no one would ever burn myrrh in her name, for she wanted worshippers as little as she had wanted all the honors and kingdoms the lons had offered her. She was no Ancient, no queen, no true sorceress, but simply Aeriel. It seemed to her that that was how the trouble of the world had started—when the Ancients had set themselves up as the far-off and unapproachable rulers of the world, only to shamefully neglect and disregard all that they had created. She did not intend to rule the world—only to heal it as much as her borrowed magic could, to pour into it all of the love she had to offer.

Looking around, she suddenly became aware of all the attention she and Erin were attracting. Men with violet-tinted skin and turbaned women in their lovely, tapered trousers stopped in the street to look at them, eyes wide.

Erin gently tugged her arm. "Where is the kirk?" she asked.

"In the center of the city—down the main street, here," Aeriel answered in a weak voice as her legs unfroze. She did not know why she suddenly felt so self-conscious—she had stood before the entire Westron and Istern armies without trembling, so how could a few passers-by unnerve her? Then she felt Erin's warm, smooth hand around her own, and was comforted. _Even if I were estranged from the entire world_, she thought as she returned the dark girl's handclasp, _still_ _Erin would know all the workings of my heart_.

They kept walking down the broad, white-paved street, ignoring the throngs that gathered where they had passed. The pungent odor of myrrh grew stronger as they drew near the great sanctuary, and soon they could see its tall, shining minarets rising above the other buildings. She drew a deep breath, and prepared to step through the open gates, when she heard someone shouting her name. She turned, searching the crowed behind her for a familiar face, but saw none. Then a short figure, no taller than a child and concealed beneath a broad, plum-colored parasol, jostled its way through the sea of legs.

"Lady Aeriel!" the person said again; the voice was definitely male, a pleasant, musical baritone. He lifted the brim of the sunshade to peer up at her. "Lady Aeriel," he said again, "Well met!" A young duarough stood there, beardless, eyes the color of dark agate-stones. He smiled up at her in welcome, then nodded politely to Erin. "And welcome to you, who journey at Aeriel's side."

"Well met," Aeriel answered cautiously. "Forgive me, but I do not recall meeting you before."

"Ah, you do not remember me," he said. "That is not surprising, as you had been made mute and witless most of the time you traveled with me and my aunt and uncle on the Underpaths. You may, perhaps recall, a young duarough with you at Crystalglass who was impudent enough to ask you for the last of Ravenna's verses..."

Aeriel smiled broadly, recognizing him now. "How could I forget you!" she exclaimed. "But what are you doing here in Isternes, Brandl?"

"What did you say!"

Brandl shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, taken aback by the Lady of Isternes' sharp tone.

"I said, tales are flying about the city that the Green-Eyed Sorceress is here among us," the young duarough said in a calm tone. "I have not seen her myself, m'lady, but I believe those who have told me."

Syllva pressed her hands to her ashen face, and drooped slightly in her ivory throne. "My apologies for my outburst, bard," she said after a moment, recovering some of her color. "I trust your word of course—I am simply taken aback that she should have come here at all, and particularly unannounced. Brandl"

She beckoned him closer, and spoke to him in a hushed voice. "You have spent many long years in my court, learning your craft—I know that discretion is one of the virtues they school you in. May I ask you to do me the favor of going and finding Aeriel, and asking her to sup with me tonight?"

A broad smile crossed Brandl's face. "With the greatest pleasure, lady—for she is an old friend of mine." In truth, he had known the green-eyed maiden but briefly, and only then as a mute, injured foundling his aunt Maruha had taken pity upon—but he remembered her with tenderness and goodwill, recalled how she had smiled when he announced his attention to become a bard in Isternes. Since her withdrawal from the world years and years ago, only snatches of fragments of her life and deeds had come to him, in the forms of songs and tales—now that she had returned, what better chance to know more of her, and rekindle that friendship?

But Syllva's face grew stern. "However, bard," she continued, "you must warn her that King Irrylath is also here, visiting. And if, knowing that, she does not wish to come, do not harry or pester her. It is true that I would be very pleased to see my sister's daughter again, but if other matters call her away quickly, I dare not keep her. If she does not want to see me at all, then at least convey my love to her, and wish her well for me. Is all this within your power, bard?"

The duarough nodded gravely, the Lady's somber mood checking his youthful exuberance. "I shall, of course, do as you as ask, and gladly," he answered. "But I am puzzled—why should Aeriel not wish to see my lord Irrylath, after all the help she gave him in the war, and even before?"

The Lady of Isternes raised a flaxen eyebrow.

"Your songs say nothing of that?" she asked in an odd voice.

"No, Lady."

She smiled sadly. "Then it is not for you to know. Nor is it for me to trick Aeriel into seeing him again. I appreciate your solicitude, Brandl, but please do what I have asked, and no more."

The young bard bowed low and clasped his hands as he prepared to take his leave. "I would not think for a moment to disobey your wishes, Lady," he said.

"Thank you, Brandl," she answered sincerely, and nodded for him to go.

The duarough walked briskly from the throne room, setting out for the palace gates and the avenue leading to the temple of Lonwury, where the rumors had first come from. As he passed through the great, vaulting archway, he heard the sound of heels pounding on the polished marble floor, echoing from the high, domed ceiling of the chamber.

"Mother, what is this I hear—that Aeriel is in Isternes!" a voice said sharply. Brandl stopped, and leaned behind a carved pillar—he recognized the voice as that of the king of Avaric. He sounded distressed, and Brandl could not help but wonder why.

"Irrylath, calm yourself," the Lady answered in a weary voice. "What have you heard?"

"That a fair, green-eyed girl has come to Isternes, with a black-skinned islander maiden as her companion, and that they have come to consult with the men and women at Lonwury. Who else could they be but Aeriel and Erin? Who else answers to that description!"

Syllva leaned back in her delicately carved throne—peering from his hiding-spot, Brandl noticed with a shock how old and tired she looked. Her light, plum-colored skin was taut over her high cheekbones, and even from a distance, her lips looked thin and colorless.

"Those are the tales that I have heard," she said, closing her eyes. "So Brandl has told me, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. I will tell you what I told him—that if Aeriel comes here, I will welcome her with a glad heart; but if she does not wish to come, I will not coerce her. By the same token, Irrylath, I will not keep you from seeing her, if that is your wish, nor will I force you to go to her. You are a grown man, a father, and a king in Avaric, and can decide for yourself."

Brandl saw the Avaric king pace back and forth a few times, like a caged animal, agitated. "I don't know what to do, mother," he said at last. "I don't know if I want to see her or not! I..."

His words were cut short as a child's scream of laughter resounded through the high, domed chamber. Brandl watched, heart lightened, as Irrylath's daughter Erryl flew from the western archway of the throne room to Syllva's carven seat, chased by a young man wearing the gilded mask of a lyon. The child skidded around her father's legs, putting Irrylath between herself and her pursuer. From the archway, Brandl saw the king stiffen at his daughter's touch, awakened from his brooding reverie.

The Lady of Isternes looked up, amused, as the lyon-masked man came to a stop. "Hadin, leave off," she said reprovingly. The Istern prince, untied the mask and pulled it off, still laughing.

"Fair enough, mother," he said. He winked down at his niece, then looked up into Irrylath's face. "Why, whatever is the matter," he asked, "that you look so solemn?"

Syllva and her eldest son exchanged a troubled glance.

"Aeriel has reappeared, they say, and is in Isternes," the Lady said.

"Why, then you must invite her to share the evening meal with us!" Hadin exclaimed.

"I have," she answered.

Brandl could not hear Irrylath's sharp intake of breath from across the room, but saw the king's chest rise, suddenly tight. Erryl also noticed, it seemed, for she peered up anxiously into her father's face.

"Who's Aeriel?" she asked, frowning.

Irrylath sighed, face pained. "Your namesake, daughter," he answered, smoothing the girl's disheveled black hair with one hand. "Someone I knew long ago."

Brandl slowly pulled away from the concealing pillar, and began walking toward the palace gates once more—it was time to be on his way. Aeriel would not be coming to the palace at all if he did not even get to her.

Aeriel looked in amazement at the young duarough, who beamed with pride.

"Why, Lady Syllva was kind enough to bring me back with her after the war," he answered. "My aunt put up a fight, mind you—but Talb managed to talk her around in the end. I learned my craft here, and now I delight the court with my songs and tales."

Aeriel suppressed a mirthful smile, remembering Maruha's low opinion the those duaroughs who ventured into the world above.

"But," he continued, "I have come to find you on quite a different matter: word had reached the Lady that you are here in the city, and she asks you both to take your evening meal with her, if you are not prevented by other matters."

The green-eyed girl felt her heart tremble in her breast—how good it would be, after so many years of seclusion from the world, after her long wandering across the eastern side of the world, the sit in the home of her mother's birthsister, and take a mouthful of food with her. Then the pearlstuff in her blood swirled slightly, in warning, and she felt her heart sink. She could sit with the Lady, but could never share a meal with her—when Ravenna had unpinned her in Crystalglass, most of her body had died; the Ancient had reconstructed her, a golam that needed neither nourishment nor sleep. Still, to only sit with her, to only see her face, that would be enough.

"However," Brandl continued, "the Lady also asked me to give you this caution: the king of Avaric and his children are also here, visiting their kith."

The girl closed her eyes; she felt like all her breath had left her.

_Aeriel, be careful!_ called the voice within her, agitated and shaken from its silence. _If you succumb, you will undo everything!_

She wanted to rebel against the Ancient's demand; thoughts filled her of her time among the duaroughs, of her silent rebellion against the power of the witch's pin. She did not know if she had the strength to defy the spirit that dwelt within her; but she knew the Ancientlady was right, at least on this point. She was in Isternes to ask the help of the women-of-learning and magic-men of Lonwury, not to please herself.

"Please give the Lady my apologies," she said in a small voice. "I cannot sup with her."


	3. Bitter Myrrh

"You _saw_ her? The Green-Eyed Sorceress?" Imrahil jumped up, scattering his carved wooden horses and soldiers in all directions.

Brandl nodded wearily, and seated himself on one of the fine silken cushions on the floor. Seeing Irrylath's seven-year-old son eased some of the disappointment in his heart, but he was still puzzled and hurt by Aeriel's short refusal. He still did not know the nature of the trouble that lay between her and Irrylath, but he was saddened that eleven years had not healed the breach. He cursed himself for not paying closer attention to Aeriel's leave-taking at the end of the war—his aunt had been busy berating him, so he knew little of what had passed. He had collected one or two rimes which mentioned the event, but had no clear idea of what had really passed between the two—people liked to make songs of true love, not of bitter parting.

"Well?" Imrahil's voice cut into his thoughts. The young prince's blue eyes were eager as he watched Brandl. "What did she say? Is she coming to the palace? Tell me…!"

The duarough made an empty gesture with his hands.

"There is nothing to tell," he said shortly.

The prince stamped his foot with impatience.

"Hang it, Brandl," he exclaimed, "you're a bard—how can you have nothing to tell?"

The stone-colored man pinched the bridge of his nose wearily, and wondered if the King of Avaric had been as difficult at this age as his son was. Then he shivered as he remembered the horrid truth—at the age of seven, Irrylath had been long drowned in the Witch's Mere, being taught things no child should ever have to learn. The duarough looked up again at Imrahil. He was what Irrylath should have been—slender, golden-skinned, full of energy and pride, but raised in kindness. No ugly scars deforming his face. No cruelty or leaden coldness in his heart. Brandl's expression softened, and inwardly he forgave the boy for his impatience.

"The lady Aeriel had business with the holy men and women at the kirk," he improvised. "She is a very important and busy person—even for the Lady of Isternes, she cannot spare any time for pleasure."

"That's very rude of her," the prince said, wrinkling his nose. "Grandmother is a queen, and at least as important as a sorceress. And Hadin says that this Aeriel is her niece, her birth-sister's daughter. So you see, it's twice as rude!"

"I don't rightly understand it myself," Brandl replied with a shrug, "but I'm sure that lady Aeriel and her companion would never be rude, since they are such great people. She saved the world, you know, by destroying the witch. Not even Queen Syllva could have accomplished that, although she is a very powerful woman. No—whatever the Green-Eyed Sorceress is up to, it must be very important indeed."

Imrahil furrowed his brows, and turned his head slightly.

"There's something you're not telling me!" he said, both amused and accusing.

"And there are some things you are not old enough to be told," the duarough replied, tapping the boy briskly on the nose. "Now, enough of this procrastination—on to your lesson for the day! Your father tells me that your handwriting is something appalling, so I will begin to teach you properly--"

Brandl broke off mid-sentence when the prince's face suddenly became very troubled.

"My writing? Irrylath noticed my writing?" he murmured, all of his former energy and brashness gone. "I wish he'd never notice me at all!" he spat, and went sullenly to get parchment, ink and a quill from one of the shelves.

The duarough watched him go, wondering at this sudden change that had come over the Prince of Avaric.

"That's no way to speak of your father," he finally said, voice muted by surprise, but no less authoritative. "He wants to prepare you for the day when you are the King of Avaric—do you want to be a dull-minded, untaught and ignorant man when that day comes? Hmm? Someone who knows nothing of the history and workings of the world?"

Imrahil scowled deeply from across the room and folded his arms, refusing to get the writing implements down. "What do you know about it?" he said sourly. "You've never even been to Tour-of-the-Kings…Syllva only appointed you to teach me and my sister while we are here visiting. You've never lived with him. You're lying when you say he wants to teach us the history of the world—he wants to keep us stupid. I'll bet he told you not to say anything to us about this Sorceress, Aeriel, didn't he?"

"He never said anything of the sort," Brandl retorted, but his voice seemed to fail him.

The Prince gave a small snort of disbelief. "He hates her name—he hates us when we ask about her, or about the war upon the Witch of the Mere. He doesn't want us to know anything about it. So he's lying when he says that he wants for me and Erryl to know all these things—he doesn't want us to know anything about them!"

The duarough rubbed his temples with his fingers wearily—he had never expected that he would be the one the young prince asked about these things. How could he answer the boy, when he knew so little himself?

"Youngling," he said in a tired, gentle voice. "You must ask him yourself—I was only a young thing myself when the war ended, and little acquainted with either the Lady Aeriel or your father. But do not think your father a liar—I have known many deceivers in my life, and he is not of their number. He is troubled, yes—what King is not? But he is also honest, and cares for you and your sister. He will tell you both in his own time."

The Prince tossed his dark hair. "He never will."

Brandl's brows furrowed. "He will. I am sure of it. If he would tell anyone about it, he would tell you and Erryl—only ask him!"

"He doesn't have anything to say to us," Imrahil said coldly, "except that our script is bad. So I suppose we'd better fix it."

The bard sighed.

"Is your sister about?" he asked, at a loss for what else to say. "This lesson is meant for her as well."

"I don't know where Erryl is," the boy replied. "I haven't seen her since this morning, when Hadin was chasing her about in that lyon-mask. Silly, if you ask me." He tried to hide it, but his voice shook.

-----

Aeriel's heart was very heavy as she waited in the austere hall of the kirk of Lonwury; the scent of myrrh was almost overpowering here, breathing a sorrowful sort of mystery into the air. The green-eyed girl was reminded of the aroma that had clung to Ravenna's garments, old flowers from a world long gone. Crystalglass, too, had been a place that held particularly bitter secrets—even with the aid of the pearlstuff in her blood and the records kept in the domed citadel, Aeriel could not come near to fully understanding why the Ancientfolk of Oceanus had sculpted the world, what had been their moon, into a pleasure garden, then cast it aside so lightly. The thought of it made her blood roil—how could they abandon the people they had made, the people they'd had _children_ with? How could she, even with Ravenna's wisdom in her, hope to put right a world so fundamentally flawed, created in such a careless and negligent manner? The task seems utterly hopeless, doomed at the start to failure.

The girl turned, and saw Erin's dark, concerned eyes upon her.

"What are you thinking, beloved?" the dark girl asked softly.

Aeriel threw up her arms in an empty gesture. "I cannot even think what I will ask of the priests and priestesses," she said. "I don't even know how they can help me."

Erin frowned slightly. "Why did you come here, then?"

"I don't know. They are the wisest folk left in this world—if they cannot help me, no one can."

"Are you certain that it is wisdom—their wisdom—that you need?"

"What do you mean?" Aeriel looked at her friend in bewilderment.

The dark girl leaned forward. "I mean this: the whole world before the word was founded upon wisdom—Ravenna's wisdom, the wisdom of the Oceanus. What good has that done? It has left the world falling apart around us! What good is wisdom, if there is no care to go with it? The Ancients had no love to temper their knowledge—and the world suffered for it. But you, Aeriel—you are able to give love."

Aeriel shook her head. "My heart is not so great as that," she answered.

"No—look!" Erin persisted. "What you did for Irrylath, all those years ago—giving him your heart. Your love saved him. The Witch had polluted him, destroyed him—but your heart restored what was ruined beyond repair. You can do the same for the whole world. You may not take the title of Sorceress, Aeriel, but anyone can see that your love heals. Why not heal the world?"

"Not alone—I cannot do all of that by myself. Maruha and Collum and the duaroughs are already busy fixing the machinery of the world; soon there will be water. Perhaps the magic-folk here can seal up the air, and stop the entropy that Ravenna spoke of. But there are still people in this world who have bad hearts—you have met them yourself, Erin! The slavers who bought and sold both of us; the majis who sacrificed you to the darkangel to save his own life…" The green-eyed girl sighed. "The majis and his birdpriests—they were the worst. They embraced the evil of the darkangel, profited from it. Oriencor did not put that wickedness into their hearts—she used what was always there. They are still alive, as far as I know—and there are more like them. How can I change the heart of every bad person in this world?"

The girl from the Sea-of-Dust leaned against one of the ornately carved pillars that held up the great dome of the kirk. "The apricok tree!" she said suddenly. "You fed the seeds to the lons and gave them new hearts. You could do the same--"

Aeriel shook her head. "All of the trees together could never give that much fruit. And besides, they blossom only at need, not at my demand." She scrubbed her face roughly. "I am not a wisewoman, Erin. I have never claimed to be such. But even if the trees could grow enough fruit, I have no right to make everyone in the world eat the seeds—it's their choice to make, not mine."

Erin furrowed her black brows. "I don't understand you," she said. "It would put an end to slavery, and thieving, and all manner of ills—why wouldn't you use that opportunity? You could save the whole world in one stroke, by giving them new hearts, ones without evil in them…"

The pale girl shook her head fiercely. "No, no—it is a terrible thing, to take another person's heart from them. There are only two in this world who have ever robbed someone of that way—Oriencor, and me. That is why I gave Irrylath his own heart back—I took it in ignorance. It did not belong to me, and I had no right to take it for my own as long as I did. Perhaps my own heart preserved his life—but over those two years, it did him more harm than good. No, I will not meddle that way again."

"You gave the Avarclon a new heart, and were not troubled by it," Erin said.

Aeriel inhaled sharply—she had forgotten. "That was different," she said in a weak voice. "I asked him if I could…and he agreed…I was trying to change what Ravenna had crafted badly, allowing him to feel mercy as well as well as justice…I didn't take anything from him…"

The other girl made a soothing sound, her face gentling. "Shh….Beloved, I did not mean to rebuke you. I think that you were right to do so—but I worry when you are like this. After all this time, after everything you've done, why do you still not trust yourself?"

The green-eyed maiden looked away.

Erin sighed. "Aeriel, neither you nor anyone else can deny that you have great power and authority. You do not like to admit it, I know—but you cannot put off exercising your power for forever." The night-black girl's eyes searched her own. "I wish I knew the reason for your reluctance," she said after a moment. "I wish--"

She was cut short as a tall, imposing figure swept into the room. A plum-skinned woman, turbaned and robed, bowed low to the two of them, her back and neck stiff.

"My Lady Aeriel, Lady Erin" she said in a low, honey-rich voice. "Please forgive us if we are remiss in offering hospitality…we did not ever anticipate that you would honor us with your presence so unexpectedly. We thought that you had left forever and gone into the Utter East."

The pale maiden shifted from foot to foot uneasily. She had always felt tongue-tied and unsure when others accorded her with such high titles and ornate speech. Then, too, something about the woman's tone rang false, belying the welcome she offered them. Aeriel shook her head. _It is only that I have been away from inhabited lands for too long_, she thought. _I have grown unaccustomed to conversation with others, and am not reading her rightly._

"There is no need to ask forgiveness," she answered courteously as the woman rose. "I only regret that I did not think to send word of my coming—my friend and I do not come to trespass upon your hospitality, but rather to ask for your help."

"Ask for our help?" The tall woman frowned slightly, harsh lines creasing the beauty of her sharp face. "Lady, you have only to command us—Lonwury has ever served the Ancientlady Ravenna and her kith, preserved their arts. Since they say that the Ravenna is dead, and that you are her heir, our allegiance is then to you."

Aeriel wanted to protest that she was no ruler, no sorceress, no person of importance and influence, but the memory of Erin's earlier words stilled her tongue. _You are all of these things_, whispered the pearlfire within her. _I set the world's crown upon your head, and no other's. _You_ are my heir—you have every right to command this woman and her wise brethren_.

"Thank you," she answered the priestess simply. "There is still much amiss with the world, even after eleven years. I am now in need of both your loyalty and your skill."

This statement seemed to please the tall woman, for the tightness went out of her shoulders, and she met Aeriel's gaze. "I am sure that all the members of our kirk would aid you with glad hearts," she answered. "I shall call them to assemble here in the Great Dome tomorrow, so that you may convey your need to them. Until then, we would be honored to have you take your rest within our walls."

Aeriel nodded, relieved that she and Erin would not have to find lodging elsewhere. She turned to her companion. Erin's dark face was closed and suspicious—but at last, she nodded her head. The tall woman stepped to one side, and gestured to one of the side hallways with a long, thin hand. Aeriel put her hand into her companion's, and followed the priestess. She wished that she could have ended her wanderings in Syllva's palace, among those she knew and loved. But she was exiled from that place as long as Irrylath was there, perhaps longer—for she knew that if she had gone there, she could not have brought herself to leave again.


	4. Poison

As Brandl rapped politely upon the doorframe of Syllva's private chambers, he knew instantly that he had come at a bad time. He heard a faint sound like a sigh from within, then her voice bidding him enter. The Lady of Isternes sat at her dressing-table, hands pressed to her temples and pale hair unbound down her back; there were bottles of colored glass all around her, which Brandl knew contained the magicked herbs and concoctions of Lonwury. His eyes grew round at the sight. He'd known that Syllva was tired, and getting older each day—he hadn't known that she was this sick.

"Brandl, my friend," she said, raising her head up and conjuring a faint but genuine smile. "I had meant to be more composed than this when you came—I apologize."

"There is no need whatsoever, my lady," he answered. Then, timidly, he added, "Are you unwell?"

She glanced at the bottles all around her, and color bloomed along her hollow cheeks. "I am not sick," she answered, "unless you count old age as a sickness. The medicines help my afflictions, but they can never cure what ails me." She shook her head, tossing her thin and brittle hair about her shoulders. "Brandl" she murmured, "I do not think it will be long now before I depart for Deep Heaven, to rest there."

The duarough felt his heart pounding in his chest—the possibility of Lady Syllva's death had never occurred to him. She had always seemed so calm and self-possessed, someone whom time could not touch—but here she was before him, blighted with age.

The Lady picked up a bottle of rose-colored glass, and turned it idly between her fingers.

"I still have so much in my life that is yet unfinished," she sighed. "Hadin is a fine young man, but he lacks wisdom and discipline—Isternes will pass from my hands to his, and he is yet unprepared. And then there is my eldest son—Irrylath is unhappy, and makes his children unhappy, and I can help none of them…"

Brandl nodded—so she had been aware of that all this while?

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked hesitantly.

Syllva inclined her head. "There is little you can do for my troubled sons, friend," she answered, "but you might tell me whether my sister's daughter will be with us tonight or not."

Regret filled up Brandl's heart.

"No, lady," he replied, "I'm afraid she was unable to accept your kind invitation."

The Lady nodded. "That does not surprise me," she said. Then she shut her eyes tightly, as though something had suddenly pained her.

"My lady?" Brandl asked, voice rising in alarm.

She seemed to recover her composure, and waved aside his concern. "It's only a passing pain," she said, shaking her head dismissively. "They come often, these days—but tell me, how is my niece--" She started to rise, then gasped with pain and clutched the edge of the table to keep her balance.

"Lady, you are unwell!" Brandl exclaimed, and jumped up to help her back into her seat. Her face was ashen under the plum tint, and she did not even have the breath to deny the trouble she was in. "What manner of medicines are these, that steal your strength and cause you such pains as these?" he asked sharply, and picked up the vial she'd been holding to smell it.

"They are from the wise-women of Lonwury," she answered, voice hoarse. She set her head down across her folded arms, as though it pained her.

Brandl made a face at the smell of the medicine—acrid and sour, not like the fresh green herbs of the Upperlands that he was acquainted with, or the duarough-cures Maruha had used to treat his occasional childhood illnesses. He was not as learned as his uncle, Talb, called the Mage of Downwending, but he knew that a good medicine ought to smell of life—how else could life be restored to the sick? The powder in the rose-colored bottle had no scent of life about it.

Suddenly, Syllva's hand went slack. The young bard hastily set the vial down, and took her hand in his own—it was as cold as the waters of the Witch's Mere, colder than hard winterrock. He ran to the door of the Lady's chambers and threw it open

"Help! Help!" he shouted at the guards who were stationed nearby. "My lady has been poisoned!"

-----

"What will you do now?" Hadin asked his brother quietly.

"I don't know," the King of Avaric replied in a tight, strained voice. "What is there to do? Let Aeriel go her way…return home as soon as courtesy permits…forget that she ever came here." He shrugged, his shoulders taut with discomfort. "Thank you for asking, brother—but it's none of your concern."

"Your children will ask you about it, you know—they consume stories about the Green-Eyed Sorceress and the Fair Witch like food, or air. When do you plan to tell them the truth of the matter?"

Irrylath snapped his head around, his eyes angry and accusing.

"Do you enjoy nettling me about it, brother? Hmm? I can guess at what you're thinking—that I'm a liar, that I deceive my children and my brothers and my mother. That I don't share my life because I am ashamed and fearful." He turned his face away again to look out over the city. "Hadin—my silence is all I can give them. If I cannot love them, if I cannot be a good father to them—at least I shall not burden them with my sorrows. I will not blight them with the illness that eats me. Nor more than I would blight you, or any of my brothers."

"You've never told us," Hadin said softly. "No, I don't enjoy needling you about it—but Irrylath! If it's eating you, like you say, why do you rebuff us every time we try to help you? It's almost as if we were strangers to you, rather than brothers."

The King of Avaric gave a short, joyless laugh.

"I am a stranger to you, practically!" he exclaimed, voice bitter. "I was born more than fifteen years before the eldest of you. Syllva only had me with her for six years, and she gave me over to Dirn…to a nursemaid, after I was weaned. She did not have the raising of me—she is my mother by birth only, and you are my brother only through her. I don't even look like you!" He sighed, and pressed his thin hands to his temples. "There is only one person who knows everything that happened to me," he said, "every detail of it. She saw it in Winterrock. And she could not bear to stay with me afterward, knowing what she did. I would not inflict that upon you, Hadin."

The Istern prince's eyes grew sorrowful with some inner hurt.

"You are unjust, both to us and to Aeriel," he said. "We would not blame you for the Lorelei's doings—nor would we forsake you, no matter how terrible the things she did were. And Aeriel didn't leave because she was repulsed by you—if what they say is true, she was called away by the Unknown-Nameless ones to do their work."

Irrylath shook his head. "Ravenna had some hold over her, through that chain around her wrist…but there was already so much trouble between us. When she found out everything that happened to me…when she herself destroyed Oriencor, while I could do nothing….she saw what I was: Nothing. Insignificant. The man she had mistakenly given her heart to. So she took it back…"

Unconsciously, he traced a line down his breastbone with one finger as he spoke, where he had worn his wife's heart for two years. Hadin watched the motion, troubled—yet another mystery he did not understand, the hearts Aeriel and his brother had exchanged. He supposed that the girl's sorcery made it possible, but its significance eluded him. Perhaps Irrylath was right—his life was none of his concern, too deeply personal ever to be shared, too sickening to ever be put into words.

Timidly, Hadin touched his brother's shoulder gently with one finger.

"Irrylath," he said softly, "it's your choice. I wish I could become something other than a stranger to you. There's still time. And I've seen you with Erryl and Imrahil—you're a good father to them. Please don't turn them into strangers as well--"

The Istern prince's words were cut short as one of the Palace Guard burst into the room, red-faced and short of breath.

"King Irrylath, Prince Hadin!" he panted. "I am sorry to intrude—but your lady mother--"

"What is it?" Hadin asked, eyes growing wide.

"My lords—she has been poisoned!"


	5. Waterlamp

Author's notes: Thank you, readers for your near-saintly patience! I'm hoping to crank out a few more chapters of this in the coming weeks. Thanks again for your continued comments! The problem with the repeated chapter should be fixed now. Also, forget the Anais/Lero subplot--I'm, taking the story in a slightly different direction. Enjoy!

-----

Aeriel half-heartedly nudged the embers in the low brazier that heated the room she shared with Erin. The warmth vanished quickly in the high-domed, stone-walled splendor of Lonwury, and while the green-eyed girl could warm herself, she sensed that her companion was shivering in her sleep in the bed nearby. Aeriel would have gone and warmed her friend herself, but she felt too restless to lie still all through the night, even for the dark girl's sake. The pearlstuff in her blood churned uneasily.

_There is something wrong here_, the spirit of the Ancientlady murmured in her mind. _That priestess who met us: she bows, she speaks fine words—and she lies. What can she be about?_

_How do you know?_ Aeriel replied, irritably stirring the coals again. _Can you read the workings of her mind, her heart? Does her every movement betray her scheming?_

_I know dishonest servants when I see them,_ the Ravenna snapped. _She may say that she is loyal to me, and so to you, but I can read her face—she serves only herself._

The pale maiden kept silent. Something about the woman who had met them struck her oddly—but the wisemen and women of Lonwury had not been servants for a very long time. Aeriel could not blame them for mistrusting a newcomer who so suddenly demanded their loyalty, who might force them to return to a life of servitude. _Still_, she thought, _there is something here which makes me ill at ease—and I have ignored that feeling too often before_.

The pearlstuff kept stirring and stirring, although the spirit of Ravenna was silent. Aeriel rose to her feet, and went to where Erin was shivering in her bed—she put a hand to the girl's dark face, and let it rest there until the heat of her golam-skin burned away the cold.

Once her friend's trembling had quieted, Aeriel found her feet retracing their steps back to the sanctuary of Lonwury—before this day, she had not been in the place for nearly twelve years. She pressed her hands to her aching temples. The overwhelming scent of myrrh—the smell of sorrow—seemed to invade her nose and mouth before wafting upward into the great bowl of the dome. The fine resin-embers glowed in their bowl in one alcove; they reminded her of the glowing tips of the muddy-smelling _bidis_ the servants and slaves in the satrap's house had smoked to pass the time and relieve their hours of work. As she moved closer to the basin, she noticed the hint of a double-image behind it, reflected off of some object.

_A waterlamp!_ the Ravenna's voice murmured in the back of her mind. _It has been many years since I last saw one of these—I did not think that any remained in existence_.

Aeriel stretched out her hand over the bowl of embers, and ran her fingers along its surface. It was made entirely of the blue-pale metal called ancients' silver, cool and electric to the touch, and was shaped like the graceful oil lamps that the folk of Isternes used to light and warm their homes.

"What does it do?" she asked aloud, carefully lifting and then replacing the lid. "It looks empty. What does it burn for light?"

_I know very little about its workings_, the Ancientlady answered. _One of my colleagues fashioned it in the old times, when water was still plentiful—it is not of my design. I saw them on the prows of the great ships that once crossed back and forth across the Sea-of-Dust, and I have heard that they performed all manner of magics: they lit the ships' ways in the darkness, poured out strong winds when they were becalmed, provided their crews with endless supplies of fresh, clean water, among other things. But, what it is doing here, and why it is unlit, I can only guess at--_"

The soft sweep of long robes caught Aeriel's ears, and she whirled around quickly. The tall priestess had come in by one of the side passages, and was staring intently at her pale guest.

"Lady Aeriel, forgive me if I disturb you in your meditations," she said in a rich, ringing voice. "I did not mean to intrude upon you."

"No, no" the green-eyed maiden said, shuffling her feet and wondering at the unwanted title the woman had accorded her. "You are not disturbing me. Only, I could not sleep, so I came to see what lies in this chamber."

Something flickered in the priestess' eyes, but she bowed her head and came to Aeriel's side.

"This waterlamp," the pale girl continued, "I have only a small knowledge of it—how did it come to be in this place?"

"Ah, this trinket," the other woman said with a smile. "Part of a bargain, and a bad one at that—as you can see, it is broken and unusable. We keep it here until one of our number can find a means to repair and rekindle it. The incense keeps the metal from tarnishing."

"Bargain?" Aeriel murmured. "Do the wise-women and magic-men of Lonwury trade their arts for profit, then?"

The tall woman's face hardened into a faint frown. "Nothing so disreputable as that, I assure you, Sorceress," she said in a cold voice. "In the old times, it is said, the Ancients kept the folk of Lonwury clothed and fed, that we might be useful to them and to the world. Lonwury has supported itself these many thousands of years with its own labors—but we do not forget our duties or our allegiance."

Aeriel bit the inside of her lip—she had come here to ask the help of this woman, not to insult and offend her.

------

_"Sister—you have returned at last," Eryka said, offering a long, graceful hand. Syllva took it gladly, and with her birthsister's assistance stepped down from the boat, setting foot upon Isternes' shore once more. Eryka folded her into a warm, spice-smelling embrace of pale green silk, then brought her hands up to caress her sister's beloved face. Syllva thought she might begin crying then, before the high walls of Isternes. She put her hands over Eryka's, and kept them there._

_"Come," the other said, "all of that trouble is on the other side of the Sea now—come up into the city, and all will be well again."_

…

_Syllva sat at ease in the courtyard overlooking the palace gardens, gazing beyond the white city walls to the Sea-of-Dust. She spread a hand protectively over the growing bulk of her belly, just beginning to swell against the soft violet silk of her robe and pull the delicate fabric taut. _I am with child_, her mind sang._ I did not think I could have another—but the wise-women of Lonwury have made it so! _She smoothed the slick, cool folds of her gown—she could not think of this child without thinking of her other, lost son, the one she would never have back._

No, _she thought as she touched her stomach again, thrusting the unhappy thoughts aside._ This is a new life—and not only for the child.

_The soft rustle of silken robes against the marble floor alerted her to her sister's approach._

_"In these three years you have been back, this is the first time I have seen you truly happy," Eryka said with a smile, putting her hands over Syllva's._

…

_"The Westron lands fall, one after another, and you say we must do nothing?" Eryka's green eyes glittered with anger._

_Syllva answered with a tight nod._

_"Yes," she said. "What has ever come from that quarter but misfortune and sorrow? I have finished with the West—I lost a son there, but I will lose no others."_

_The other woman's eyes narrowed._

_"You believe her," she said at last, in a hard voice. "You really believe her! Sister, that woman of Lonwury has no love for you—she has tricked you into turning your back upon Westernesse. She preys upon your grief, and turns it to her own ends."_

_"Eryka," the Lady of Isternes answered wearily, "I know you have long had cause to quarrel with Lonwury, perhaps justly so—but they are right in this, at least. I cannot have back those unfortunate years of my life, no more than I can have back my husband or firstborn son—but I cannot forever be divided between the two sides of the Sea, my body here but my heart still on the other side. I have pledged myself to Isternes—not to the West. And the child I will soon bear is proof of that union."_

_"A child with no father! A child of cunning and artifice, and not of love…!"_

_Her birthsister looked away, and her lips tightened, as though she were holding back angry words. Syllva sighed, and turned her eyes away—what could her sister, who had never set foot beyond Isternes' walls, know of loss, or of regret?_

…

_"My birthsister—she is gone?"_

_The guardsman nodded hesitantly, glancing sidelong at his fellows._

_"We saw a small craft leaving with the evening winds for the West, but we thought nothing of it until now," he answered._

…

_Syllva smiled gently into her youngest child's face. Hadin was different from her other sons—good-natured and even-tempered, for he only cried occasionally, but with an odd seriousness in his violet eyes, still pale with newness. The Lady of Isternes sighed, and smoothed back the pale wisp of hair on the crown of his head. Hadin would be the last child she had using Lonwury's arts—she could not bear the taste of their medicines anymore, the cold, electric touch of the wands and bowls they used. No more._

…

-----

With great effort, the Lady of Isternes opened her eyes to gaze at the faces that pressed around her. There was one she knew at once—the skin like poured gold, the glossy black hair, tied up in the knot of a Chieftain of Avaric, the vivid blue eyes like Oceanus above…

"Imrahil," she whispered, reaching to touch his face, to make sure that it was real. He stiffened beneath her hand, hurt written across his face. Syllva wondered what she had done to offend him—did her husband not welcome her touch after so many years of separation?

So many years…no, this could not be Imrahil before her. Her husband had died long ago, bitterly unhappy, and alone in the cold Tour-of-the-Kings. Her fingers brushed against four long scar-ridges, confirming her guess.

"No, no, you are my son," she sighed, and dropped her hand. "You are my Irrylath…I'm sorry…"

The blue eyes gentled, and the King of Avaric hesitantly put his hand over hers. "There is no need for that, Mother. You've done nothing wrong."

"Only…only I thought for a moment that your father had come here…it must be the medicines…or my mind, slipping…"

Irrylath looked away, pained. "Mother," he said softly. "Someone has poisoned you…the medicines are no good, they've only made you sicker. Please, you must tell me who gave them to you!"

"Poison?" she asked weakly. "Surely I would have tasted it…and I thought that poisons killed quickly?"

"Please…who gave it to you?" came another voice. Syllva turned her head to one side, and saw a short, gray figure there, one of the duarough-folk. _Brandl_, her memory supplied. _The bard_.

"Anais at the kirk at Lonwury has treated my illnesses ever since I returned from Westernesse. All of those bottles are from her, delivered by her prentice, Lero. But…Anais is a woman-of-learning, what reason would she have to deceive me?"

"We don't know." Irrylath again. "But if she has made an attempt upon your life in full knowledge, may the Unknown-Nameless ones have mercy upon her—we will not."

The Lady shook her head weakly, too bewildered to fully absorb this news. Anais had seemed trustworthy, and spoke as though she knew her craft. There had only been one illness beyond her cure. _But no_, Syllva thought. _She said that my infertility had been ordained by the Unknown-Nameless Ones, a punishment for leaving my home to follow a barbarian chief over the Sea-of-Dust, for leaving my throne to Eryka, for neglecting my duties that I might follow my heart. And I believed her…after Irrylath was drowned, I was sure that Imrahil and I had been cursed, that I was to blame. I bore six sons after I returned, all of pure Istern blood, and she said that her point had been proven. And when Eryka went merchanting in Westernesse and never returned…Oh, I trusted her then…_ She closed her eyes as her heart twisted. _I trusted Dirna, too_.

She heard Brandl running from the room, dispatching an order to find the priestess as quickly as possible and hold her until justice could be done. Something warm trickled down her cheeks, but was not strong enough to lift her arm and wipe the droplets of grief away.

"Mother?" Irrylath asked, voice subdued. "I have sent word to Aeriel, and asked her to come—she will be able to help you, and make you better."

"Oh…I should like to see her, my green-eyed kinswoman. But…she refused to come before. Do you really think she will change her mind now?"

The Chieftain of Avaric was silent for a moment, dark head bowed with thought.

"Yes," he said finally, "I think she will. I asked her to come for your sake, not for mine. If she wishes it, I will…" His voice seemed to catch in his throat. "I will remove myself from the palace, so that she may cure you without having to lay eyes upon me."

"But…but you have wanted to see her for the last fifteen years!"

Irrylath nodded. "I have…every day, I have wished that. But your well-being is more important than the foolish things I want."

She smiled up at him—a strange coldness was creeping up through her body, making every muscle heavy and unresponsive. "It is not a foolish thing, to want to see Aeriel," she murmured. She felt weariness overtake her. "Will there never be peace between the two of you?" she asked.

Her first-born son sighed faintly. "I don't know," he answered, voice so low that she barely caught his words.

"Don't repeat my mistakes," she murmured as she closed her eyes to rest, "or you will regret it forever."

"What do you mean?" Irrylath asked—but the Lady was already asleep, dreaming that a spirit of golden starlight hovered nearby, wearing her husband's face.


End file.
